Back to December
by St. Harridan
Summary: One December morning, Kenpachi finds himself at the grave of a certain dead captain. Dedicated to Hasty.


**Title:** Back to December

**Author:** St. Harridan

**Rating:** T

**Fandom:** Bleach

**Pairing(s)/Character(s):** Zaraki Kenpachi, Ukitake Jushiro

**Theme:** 244 – A love remembered

**Genre:** Angst, Friendship, Romance

**Warnings:** Kenpachi-style swearing.

**Words: **1619

**Summary: **One December morning, Kenpachi finds himself at the grave of a certain captain. Implied Kenpachi/Jushiro.

**Disclaimer:** Do not own Bleach.

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The snow globe was something created by humans and therefore no shinigami had ever heard of it, let alone come to possess it. Snow globes were spheres that came in a range of sizes, some as small as the palm of a child and some as big as an adult's fist. Inside those spheres were a variety of things but most of them were tiny plastic dolls and cottages and pine trees that captured the essence of some human celebration whose name no one in Soul Society could remember.

Zaraki Kenpachi, the fearsome captain of the Eleventh Division, held a snow globe in the middle of his palm. His large hand dwarfed the little sphere, but a child like Yachiru would need both her hands to cup it so that it wouldn't fall and break. Not that it would have broken if it fell to the white blanket underfoot.

Soul Society was enveloped in a thick layer of snow. It was a harsh winter this year – but then again, winter was always the harshest time of every year no matter how early or how late it struck. Residents of upper-class Rukon had been shopping for winter clothes and now were probably enjoying hot cups of tea – hot chocolate for the little ones – snuggled up to one another under a thick mass of blankets, completely unaware of the inhabitants of the districts further down the lane.

Kenpachi remembered the days of winter spent in the 80th District as if he hadn't left that shit hole at all. Those days were unforgiving, filled with torturous hunger and frozen limbs. More than half of the district's neighbourhood died each year, succumbing to the cold or the burning sensation in their empty stomachs. There were times when those who appeared to be stronger than that were murdered by others who got too hungry or when game just wouldn't trip and fall into their traps. The murderers would then be slaughtered by others, and the cycle continued until a warm breeze brought the fresh scent of spring into their dismal world.

Kenpachi was one of a few handfuls of survivors with a fiery will to live who made it through that icebox, wearing nothing more than rags, without a name and equipped with an equally nameless zanpakuto by his side. It was days like those that he felt a bitter resentment towards the upper-class families of the Rukon and the lazy ass pansies in Seireitei who, despite being lords of the Soul Society headquarters, did nothing to improve the condition of the lower districts.

Now one of the captains of the Gotei 13, Kenpachi was all too aware of the situation behind the mysterious walls of Seireitei. To put it shortly, they didn't give a rat's fuckin' ass about the Rukon, _especially _the shitty districts, because they assumed that there was no hope for salvation for the inhabitants. Kenpachi had no idea what to say about that baseless dogma except to condemn it in his heart, for if he tried to question the authority, the old prick would have his head off his shoulders in an instant. Not that Kenpachi minded much. He'd welcome the opportunity to have a fight with Yamamoto, but denied that little pleasure just for the sake of keeping the peace. That proved to be quite challenging given Kenpachi's infamous battle lust, but some help from a certain fellow captain kept him grounded.

Lowering himself to his knees, Kenpachi brushed snow away from the tombstone. A heavy blizzard struck the night before, and he had been a little anxious about it until it ceased in the early hours of dawn. His fingertips touched the cold, rough surface of stone and his eyes followed as they slowly traced the all too familiar etchings of kanji.

At the base of the tombstone was a single white flower, almost invisible in the snow. A lily or something. Kenpachi couldn't quite place it. What flower blooms in winter anyway? Though he knew he would never find the answer to that, a piercing pain deep in his chest that he could only identify as a stab of guilt made the corners of his lips curl in a self-condemning smirk. He placed the snow globe beside the flower with a light scoff. That kimono-totting son of a bitch always beat him to the grave.

A spark of antipathy poked at his heart every time the realization of his being second dawned on him. And every time that sense of animosity tried to get the better of him, a voice on the cold winter breeze would whisper into his ear through icy lips that fleeted against his warm skin, sending a shiver up his spine.

Kenpachi could hear that voice now as it melted in and out of the breeze, incoherent. He closed his eyes, blocked out the silence, and listened intently, almost desperately, for that whisper he hadn't heard in a year.

A vision of white dashed across his mind's eye and quickly he focused on it. A light crackle and there was the said captain, standing behind his desk with a few documents in both hands. Kenpachi felt his breath catch in his throat when the man looked up and directed a smile at him. A smile that only Kenpachi was fortunate enough to witness.

And then the scene warped to be replaced with a picturesque garden. There was an abundance of flowers. Red, blue, purple, yellow, every colour picked out from Yachiru's countless crayon sets and more, but white was always in dominance. In the centre of the garden was a large pond of water as clear as crystal where large carps dwelled. Kenpachi watched from the stone bridge over the pond as the carps swam lazily around without a care in the world. One carp – the only one with shades of orange, black and white – wiggled its tail to the surface and snatched a small bit of fish food.

Kenpachi looked up, but the face he so wanted to see was blurred and he toppled over the edge of the bridge into the water. He expected to drown but then he found that he could still breathe. It was water but it didn't feel wet.

A gentle hiss of breath warmed his ear. It was indecipherable but kept increasing in volume until Kenpachi could hear a murmur of his own name. He felt hands, warm hands, travelling all over his body; touching, feeling, caressing. His skin responded with goose flesh to the unusual, hair-raising contact. Trimmed nails raked across his shoulder blades and clung to his sides. Smooth skin slid over his own rough hide like a dove taming a snake. That would have been impossible, but Kenpachi had long found out that nothing was.

And when his mind gave into the overwhelming strain, Kenpachi snapped his eyes open with a soft gasp. His breathing had gone ragged and he was slightly panting. He was tempted to close his eyes again. It took all his willpower to refrain. Instead, he fixated his attention on the tombstone before him, glaring at the etched kanji characters with a strong urge to dig up the grave and rip open the coffin.

The flower, still resting at the base of the tombstone, caught the breeze and would have slid away hadn't Kenpachi picked it up. Twirling the stem between his index finger and thumb, he gave a low scoff of disapproval. The man, who had arrived earlier than him, seemed to always think that he knew everything about his best friend. But in truth – and Kenpachi would have loved to spit this square in his drunk-red face – he didn't know shit.

Kenpachi returned the flower to where it sat and retrieved the snow globe. In it, a small cottage was semi-buried in a thick white layer of artificial snow. There was a sled filled to the brim with colourfully wrapped boxes, some had fallen over the edge and was buried in snow. Attached to the sled by reigns was a pair of reindeers. One had a black nose while the other had a rather plump red one. He couldn't remember why that reindeer was so special.

Kenpachi tipped the globe upside down and watched as snow tumbled from the ground to settle at the curved top of the sphere. As he did so, a snowflake drifted onto the tip of his hooked nose. Brushing it away with an annoyed frown, he looked up and realized that the sky had darkened, signalling the coming of another blizzard.

"Well," he huffed, rising to his feet. "Better start headin' back." He pulled the beanie lower so that it settled just above his eyes and, as much as he didn't want to, turned his back on the tomb. Just after two steps, he came to a halt. He held up the snow globe, gazing at it absent-mindedly. What he saw weren't the fancy ornaments inside the glass sphere.

Reflected back at him was a pair of grey eyes burning with passion, of sorrow and longing. Kenpachi gazed into those eyes that seemed familiar but at the same time felt foreign. "Ye think I should tell that shitty best friend o' yours that your favourite colour ain't white?"

He knew it was foolish, but he waited for an answer. What he got was only the whisperings of a zephyr rustling the leaves overhead.

"Che." Kenpachi shut his eyes with a grin, held up the snow globe. "If ye want this back, ye're gonna have to come and get it yerself."

The whisper in his ear turned into a soft chuckle of amusement that was soon swept away by the cold December wind.

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**A/N: **I simply love angst. Hope ya like it, Hasty! Thanks for all the pointers.


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